Sneak Peek Wednesday: The Legend of the Nine-Tailed Fox by Katrina Kwan

I bring a hand up to my face and readjust my mask, making sure to keep the hood of my cloak pulled low over my head. The mask is made of polished porcelain, as smooth and perfect as a doll. Every painstaking detail of her face has been painted by hand. Like a fisherman’s lure, it’s a tool at my disposal. From the mask’s perfectly straight black brows, the soft rouge upon her carved lips, and the light blush that stains her cheeks, she’s the most tempting of lures indeed. I feel the magic within the mask rooting in place, seamlessly blending her features over my own as a second skin. No prey can ever hope to escape me now that I’ve been made beautiful.

With the illusion cast and steady, I step forward.

“Excuse me?” I call out, lifting my voice so that my words rival the saccharine notes of a bamboo flute. I pull off my hood slowly. My long black hair pools over my shoulders like calligraphy over the finest parchment. “Excuse me, sir, it seems that I’ve lost my way.”

The drunkard turns, lips curled into a sneer. I can tell he’s about to curse me out when he suddenly freezes, his eyes locked upon my visage with an almost haunted reverie. I’m the most exquisite face his miserable eyes have ever looked upon. He almost looks heartbroken by my beauty, his eyes glassing over with tears of awe.

If only he knew the horrors concealed just beneath the surface.

He starts toward me, entranced, mouth hanging open to add to his general air of stupidity. “Where are you going, my lady? I can show you the way.”

I bat my lashes, a delicate hand over my chest. Gone are my claws, replaced with dainty human fingers. All the easier to pluck his eyes out with. “I hope it isn’t too much trouble. I would hate to be a bother.”

“No trouble at all!” The man offers his hand out to me, suddenly a gracious gentleman. I pretend not to notice his bloody knuckles, remaining perfectly still. The goal isn’t to go to him, but for him to come to me.

“These streets are so terribly confusing,” I continue. I slowly reach for him, my movements graceful and enticing. “Won’t you come a bit closer? I fear I’ll trip on these uneven stones.”

He stutters pathetically. “Y-yes, I’d be happy to—”

The moment he’s within range, I pounce.

My daggerlike nails pierce through the flesh of his wrist, slicing through tendons and grating against bone. I yank him toward me, already unhinging my jaw to tear at the side of his throat. He doesn’t get a chance to scream as we fall to the ground. There’s no fight in him now that the wine on his tongue has dulled his senses.

The metallic twist of blood coats the inside of my mouth, smears across my lips, drips down my pointed chin. It’s not just the taste I enjoy but the energy that comes from a mere bite. For all life, from the smallest insect to the mighty dragons far out east, is made up of qi. It flows through every breathing creature and gives balance to the world. It’s the invisible force that turns flowers toward the sun, which helps our bodies heal from sickness…

And it’s something a demon like me doesn’t have.

Perhaps that is why I crave it so. It’s only natural to seek what we lack—and this man is full-to-bursting with qi to share. The wine in his system lends its intoxicating effects, and before long, my head is spinning with inebriated bliss. Where most might find it vile, blood to me tastes better than a hearty beef stew. It quenches a thirst so deep I can feel the relief and satisfaction in my marrow.

I release his neck with a gasp, so engrossed in my feast am I that my lungs burn from lack of air. I can’t help but hum as I swipe a finger over the corner of my mouth. My sisters used to tease me for being a messy eater. Now that I have him in my clutches, I can tell this isn’t the man I’m looking for—why is that cursed Maskmaker so damn hard to find?—but he’ll make a scrumptious meal all the same. The drunken man beneath me sputters and twitches, his little eyes staring up at me in pure horror. He uselessly clasps his hand over the gaping hole I’ve left in the column of his throat. Red pours freely. I must have chewed through his artery. He won’t last long.

I take off my mask and set it down beside me, not wanting it to stain. It is one of a kind, irreplaceable. The magic pulls away like the thick strands of honey between two broken combs, and what once looked like skin returns to its rigid porcelain form.

I catch my reflection in a growing pool of blood beneath his quivering mass. I try not to look, but it’s no use. Now that the illusion has fallen away, I can make out the curve of my severely hunched back, the shape of my dirty claws, and the pointed, hairy ears sitting atop my head. My nine tails sweep out behind me, stretching out like a hand-painted fan, my fur bushy and a dirtied white. I now stand above the drunkard, my bones creaking as I grow to almost triple his height—a behemoth by comparison—as tall as the shanty homes that surround us.

But what I hate most isn’t my jittery figure or my knobby joints. A fox stares back at me. The right side of my face is horribly burned, the skin pulled back so tight that it exposes my fangs to the cold evening air. My six eyes are slits of dull obsidian and stark gray irises, no soul of my own to shine through. I look like a dead thing. Roadkill. A beast that should remain banished to the shadows.

I look away to eat. I’m not here to lament my hideous features.

First to go are his ears and nose and both his eyes, all wonderfully chewy. Every bit of bone and every crunchy piece of cartilage. Organs, skin, teeth, and hair. I peel away his layers until I get to the main course: the heart. For within the heart resides the soul, and that is where the true feast lies. Richer than a persimmon, juicier than a peach. I don’t bother chewing, relishing the way his heart slides down my throat and settles in the pit of my belly. Hot like bone broth and thrice as nurturing.

I’m about to leave when I remember the appalling state my appearance is in. I reach for my mask, pressing it to my face to allow the magic to melt into my skin. I look back at the pool of blood, as a human might with a mirror for a little reassurance, and find a beautiful woman with long raven hair, rosebud lips, and bright, sparkling eyes. The face of an innocent. Someone who definitely didn’t just devour a man.

There isn’t a scrap of my meal left behind—only, perhaps, an errant knuckle bone and a single molar. No one will ever be the wiser. The evening is young, and humans are far more entertaining to watch under the cover of night. There’s plenty of time left to indulge in my favorite pastime.

But first, I snatch up the man’s coin purse.

I retrace my steps, following the scent of squalor. When I find the little hole of a home I’d arrived at earlier, I see that the door is shut tight and the lights within are out, though I can still hear the infant’s soft sobbing. Easy targets, the both of them, but I think they’ve dealt with more than their fair share of bad luck tonight.

Maybe I do pity my food. Just a little. In the same way one might feel sorry for a wounded rabbit squealing helplessly in a snare.

Coin purse in hand, I hop up onto the stoop and tie its strings to the door handle. I have no use for money. Whatever I want, I steal. Most are too slow to realize what I’ve pocketed, and those that aren’t can’t keep up with me should it come down to a chase.

With two swift kicks at the bottom of the wooden door, I bolt around the corner and duck out of sight. I watch from the shadows as the woman nervously opens the door a crack, peering out for someone she never finds. She notices the coin purse almost immediately, taking it with a sharp gasp. A quick look left, then right, suspicion etched into her cry-swollen face. I smell relief, a sweet note lingering beneath the surrounding decay, but it’s mostly masked by the bitter tinge of her distrust. I don’t leave until the woman returns safely inside.

I’ve had my fill this night. There’s no need to feast on lambs when there are wolves to satisfy my belly.